When the morrow came, Michael and Kit were astonished that Lord Newcastle bade them join the few officers he took with him to meet the Prince outside the walls.
"It was you who brought him to us, gentlemen," he explained, with a cheery nod. "We hold you in peculiar honour."
The meeting itself was unlike Kit's hot-headed pictures of it, framed beforehand. Prince Rupert, straight-shouldered and smiling, was obviously dead weary. His body was that of a usual man, but his head and heart had been big enough to guide some thousands of soldiers who trusted him from Oxford to the plain of York; and none goes through that sort of occupation without paying the due toll. His eyes were steady under the high, wide brows; but the underlids were creased and swollen, and about his mouth the tired lines crossed and inter-crossed like spider's webs. Only Boye, the hound, that had gathered superstition thick about his name, was true to Kit's dream of the meeting; and Boye, remembering a friend met at Oxford, came and leaped up to lick his hand.
"Homage to gallantry, Lord Newcastle," said Rupert, lifting his hat. "The defence of York goes beyond all praise."
"It was well worth while," said Newcastle, and got no further, for his voice broke.
"The day augurs well," went on the other by and by. "I like to fight in good weather. Wet clothes are so devilish depressing."
"But the siege is raised, your Highness. All York is finding tattered flags to grace your welcome in."
"They are kind, but flags must wait. We propose to harry the retreat."
"The retreat," said Eythin quietly, "is so ready for civil war among itself that we should be well advised to leave it to its own devices."
Michael, with the eye that saw so much, caught a glance of challenge that passed from Eythin to the Prince. And he guessed, in his random way, that these two were enemies of long standing. He did not wonder, for he had met few men whom he misliked as he did Eythin.